“I’m sorry,” she says. It’s all she can muster. She does not know how to deal with loss. She never had to. Tabula Rasa takes care of that.
“Minor nuisance,” he says, his eyes are fixed on the door of the brownstone. His words make her blood run cold.
“Benja . . . this is enough,” she says.
He does not hear her.
“They’re probably just having sex. He’s experimenting,” he mutters.
“They look in love,” she says.
“In love? How can he be in love with him if he’s in love with me?” he says, looking at Aris squarely. His eyes are bloodshot.
“You are in love with him,” she says. The man probably has no memory of Benja or their past cycle. If he even was his lover.
“Because I finally remember . . .”
“Or think you remember. It’s the drug that messed with your brain.”
“I told you it’s rea—” He pauses. The silence makes her nervous.
“You know what?” he says. “That’s what he needs! Absinthe. Then he’ll remember.”
“You’re going to convince a man who sees you as a stranger to take a mysterious drink from another stranger? No one in their right mind . . .”
“I’ll figure it out.”
“Benja . . .”
Aris realizes that his obsession has consumed him. She has let it carry her into a ridiculous flight of fancy long enough. He is not going to stop. If she stays, she would only be drawn in deeper.
“I’ll take you home,” he says.
He takes her hand. She pulls away. She cannot enable his madness any longer. Her heart cannot take it.
“I’ll take myself home,” she says.
“Aris . . .”
“You should go home and get some sleep. I’ll call you later.”
She kisses him on the cheek and heads toward the train station.
Chapter Eleven
The farther Aris is from Benja, the angrier she becomes. Away from him, her logical side kicks in. She is reminded that his dreams—the ones that turned him into a drug addict and a stalker—are mere fabrications of his brain. She decides to keep walking. Being stuck in a speeding train with no escape route is not ideal for her current state of mind.
The ragged blade of anger scrapes at her insides. But what or who is she angry at? Is it her friend and his antics? The Dreamers for fueling his obsession with a mind-altering drug? Or herself for going along with it?
Nobody is being forced into doing anything. Benja, the Dreamers, and she all operate under their own free will. Only one of those wills is under her control. That, she can fix. As to how easily, she is not certain.
She loves Benja. Not in the romantic, all-consuming way he loves the man from his dream. But in a way that his happiness and sadness affect hers. Her love is unhealthy because he is. She can already feel her mind fraying around the edges, exhausted from the disorderliness within.
Her friend is a victim of his own personality. His passion for life, tenacity, and confidence have transformed into irrationality, obsession, and blindness. He is consumed by his desire. It’s hard to watch him go through the pain of wanting someone he cannot have. If this is what unrequited love does to a person, she does not want to be in its destructive path.
She shakes off the troublesome thought. Making the best of the situation, she decides to find the farmers’ market with the rainbow chard. That will take care of dinner.
Farmers’ markets happen unannounced and in random places within the Four Cities. After the fresh crop of the week is harvested and enough is put aside for equal distribution, the leftover gets flown to a spot by drones. It’s free for the taking by those lucky enough to stumble upon it.
She turns a corner onto Fay Street and instead finds herself in the middle of a gift market. Tables line both sides of two city blocks. People peruse the tables, picking up and putting down items each holds.
Aris stops at a table where a woman with flowing auburn hair holds a wooden box to her chest. Her eyes are closed. The warm shade of the box matches her hair. The woman opens her eyes, sees Aris, and gives her a shy smile.
“I’m trying to feel whether it sparks any memory,” the woman says.
“From past cycles?” Aris asks.
The woman nods. “I feel so sad for these things. They were once loved. But now their owners don’t remember owning them.”
Aris picks up a blue-and-green pot with an acorn design in front of her. These beautiful objects were once loved—the woman is right. Nothing here is broken or defective. They are just items left behind in homes after each cycle. The new inhabitants either found them not suited to their tastes or not useful. So, they take them to the gift market, hoping they will find a new home. Until the next cycle.
“Things are only meaningful if you remember why you have them,” the woman says. “So I try to see if I can remember owning any of these things.”
“Do you touch everything?” Aris asks.
“I try to. But sometimes there are too many things for the time I have.”
Aris brings the pot to her chest.
“It helps if you close your eyes,” the woman says.
Aris hesitantly closes her eyes. She looks in the darkness behind her lids and tries to see whether the pot once had a place in her past lives. On a mantle perhaps? Or on a bookcase under the stairs? What would she have used it for? The squat round pot is not big enough for flowers. Would it only be an object of admiration? Something beautiful always has admirers. That is how things often survive. Being beautiful.
She opens her eyes. The redhead smiles at her.
“Did you feel anything?” she asks.
“I’m not
